


Missing

by cougarlips



Series: Lightning Appreciation Week (Feb 3-9) [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIII, Final Fantasy XIII Series, Final Fantasy XIII-2, Lightning Returns: Final Fantasy XIII
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, POV First Person, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:59:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5893783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cougarlips/pseuds/cougarlips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I sleep for a long time on Etro’s throne with crystallized tears permanently etched onto my hardened skin. I exist, but only in essence. The loss of Serah still leaves an ache in my chest, almost as though my heart is physically torn into pieces with every passing moment.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>It’s when the thought of Hope enters my mind that I am the most there. At times I can actually see him and I can almost reach out; even though I’m not physically there, he can sense something and sometimes, sometimes -- he calls out for me.</i>
</p>
<p>Prompt: Favorite relationship (Hope Estheim)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missing

Hope is nimble and quick on his feet. His fingers shoot spells faster than anyone’s, even Vanille’s, who became a l’Cie long before any of us were even born. His protective spells feel like an embrace, warm and comforting -- different from Sazh’s spells, somehow, which always have a hint of urgency. When he heals, a calm settles over us and the world fades away. Every stress melts from our skin and we’re alone, even when surrounded by hoards of enemies.

After Palumpolum he’s different. He seems wiser, ready to take on everything with a clear head and open heart. His spells come easier to him and he’s faster, stronger, _kinder_. He still whimpers in his sleep, but now his eyes twinkle and his face isn’t warped with anger. Vanille notices the change, too, and Snow and I exchange glances when he volunteers to scout ahead.

In Valhalla, it’s Serah I miss the most, but immediately behind her is Hope. I watch him from time to time, watching him grow older and wiser as I stay the same -- never growing, ever twenty-one in body. As the years pass before him, I feel in my stomach a dropping sadness that I can’t spend time with him. When his twenty-second birthday passes, I feel tears on my face I didn’t know I had shed. I still think of Hope as a scared, directionless fourteen year old in the back of my mind, but now he’s older than I am. Twenty-three passes, then twenty-four, twenty-five, and when he’s twenty-six he and Serah and Noel are reunited but for a moment, and then the unthinkable happens.

I sleep for a long time on Etro’s throne with crystallized tears permanently etched onto my hardened skin. I exist, but only in essence. The loss of Serah still leaves an ache in my chest, almost as though my heart is physically torn into pieces with every passing moment.

It’s when the thought of Hope enters my mind that I am the most _there_. At times I can actually see him and I can almost reach out; even though I’m not physically there, he can sense something and sometimes, sometimes -- he calls out for me.

I like to talk to him while he’s working away. I peek over his shoulder and read over his notes but I shake my head at the absurdity of his studies. He begins searching for me, but as the repercussions of losing Etro make themselves known, he’s forced to push my case to the side. He studies for a way to maintain the new cocoon, but it’s caving under the stress of supporting life, and the Chaos is eating it into oblivion.

I don’t know how much time truly passes, but slowly Hope begins showing signs of stress. It’s true that no one can age, but his eyes sink deeper into his skull, and his skin takes on a deathly pallor. It’s when he starts staring at me -- no, _through_ me, I have to correct myself -- that I begin to worry, truly. I follow him around almost constantly, and he’s withdrawing himself from Snow and Noel. He talks to me more, now, and his words worry me. He writes in his notes -- his old notes, his _original_ notes about me -- about what he calls me: a rose-haired phantom.

He rests more now. He still lives on the man-made cocoon, despite its falling apart. A lumpy bed sits in the corner of his office, and often-times he doesn’t even move to his desk to sift through dozens of texts. And when he finally, simply, disappears, it almost feels like a relief to not have to watch him regress.

 

Bright light surrounds and encompasses me. I feel a warm glow settling on my skin, but I’m missing something -- I’m missing a warmth in my chest that should be there, the warmth of joy that I am no longer a crystalline statue, no longer a slave to my surroundings.

My eyes are shut as I feel around for what is missing inside me, but I can’t place it, and now I’m wondering if maybe I’m only imaging that I’m missing something.

Then I hear it, the wheezy voice of a fourteen year old who had to grow up too fast: “Welcome home, Light.”

And I know, without a doubt, that something is wrong.


End file.
